#annie made him some honey cakes which they will share

[theshotsheardacrossworlds]

You guys.

YOU GUYS!!!

LOOK AT HALSIN AND ANNIE BEING SUPER CUTE AND ADORABLE AND CUDDLY!!!!!

Thank you so much to @littledisgustingart for making Halsin and Annie come to life 🥰😭

[henrycavillobsessed]

Porcelain

Characters: Henry Cavill x Anwen Evans (fictional fiance)

Summary: Henry and Anwen’s life was perfect. Until one day, one phone call, changes everything.

Words: 3,444

TW/CW: Death, car accident, description of injuries, hospital, grief. Slight mention of implied sex; some bad language. 

Notes: So here it is, my latest fanfic. It’s been a while, due to a bit of a mind block. The idea for this came to me, after being inspired by the song Porcelain by Emarosa (link below in case you’re interested). This one is different to my other fics, for one it’s not the usual Henry x reader narrative. I have created a character this time to act as his partner. Also this one is LONG (3,444 words). I have enjoyed writing a longer and more complex story and I hope you enjoy reading it. (As a warning, it’s SAD. I am not ashamed to admit I cried just writing it.)

Link to song: https://open.spotify.com/track/7rk8cH53nI8ffb5ZccjfpT?si=QMVvEmA3TK-3WuQXJanMmQ

“Oww! Shit!”

Henry looked up from the book he was reading in bed. Anwen was rubbing her forehead and looking very wounded. She’d clearly just walked into the doorframe. Again. Henry laughed out loud.

“Don’t laugh at me!” A pillow flew through the air and missed its target of Henry’s face by a considerable amount. He laughed again. 

“I can’t help it. You are so clumsy!”

Anwen climbed into bed, still massaging the sore spot on her head. She scowled at Henry. “If I remember correctly Mr Cavill, it was because of me being clumsy that meant we met for the very first time.”

“Hmm,” Henry reached over and gathered her up in his arms, leaning back against the headboard. He kissed her gently on the faint bruise that was blooming on her pale skin. “I do remember,” he said fondly. 

          It had been over five years ago now. Henry was out with his friend and colleague Simon Pegg, drinking their way through some of London’s best nightclubs. It had been a great night so far, with both men enjoying their freedom; they’d recently finished filming their latest movie and were celebrating. Henry was feeling happily tipsy, and when Simon offered to go to the bar for another round, he didn’t refuse. 

“Get some shots too!” he shouted at Simon’s back as he left their table. Simon waved a hand in response; Henry took that as a yes and smiled. He was just checking his Instagram on his phone when something- someone- crashed into him and he felt the cold wetness of a spilt drink over his shoulder and down his shirt. He looked up incredulously. A woman was stood there with an empty glass and an equally shocked expression.

“Oh, my go- I am so sorry!” she said in a very attractive Welsh accent, Henry thought. He felt his annoyance dissipate immediately. 

“Hey, don’t worry about it, accidents happen. How much have you had to drink anyway?” he asked cheekily. 

The woman’s ivory skin blushed, contrasting prettily with her ebony hair, which was cascading around her shoulders in thick waves.

“Um, I actually don’t drink,” she admitted. “I have just shown you how uncoordinated I am; I really don’t need to throw alcohol into the mix.” 

“Very wise. Hi, I’m Henry Cavill.”

“Anwen Evans, nice to meet you.” They shook hands and were making pleasant small talk when Simon returned with the drinks.

“What on earth happened to your shirt?” he asked Henry. 

“Anwen happened. Anwen, this is my friend Simon Pegg.” 

Anwen’s face lit up. “I love your movies! Hot Fuzz is just hilarious!” she said to Simon, who smiled widely and they spent the next few moments quoting lines from the film. Simon looked sideways at Henry, and saw the way he was looking at Anwen, and cleared his throat.

“Well, it’s been lovely to meet you, but I must get on. Henry, I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, winking at his friend. Henry mouthed a silent thank you, grinning. 

After Anwen explained to her girlfriend’s that she was going to continue the night with Henry, prompting a lot of excited giggling and whispering, she sat herself down at Henry’s table. The hours flew by as they got to know each other. Anwen was an up-and-coming chef, who’d recently opened a new restaurant nearby in London. She told Henry about the restaurant’s menu, and Henry promised to try it out soon. In return, Henry told her about the films he’d been in. He was mock-outraged when Anwen admitted she’d never seen a Superman movie, let alone Man of Steel, and laughing, she promised she’d check it out soon. Conversation naturally flowed between them, Henry felt so at ease with her, and it turned out they had quite a bit in common. As Henry told Anwen about his akita Kal, Anwen told him she also had a dog, a golden retriever named Ciri.

“Ciri?” Henry had asked. “As in Ciri from The Witcher?”

“Yeah! I’m such a huge fan, I’ve read all the books, and I’ve played all the games!”

Henry laughed. “You are never going to believe who I’ve just been cast as for my next job…” Anwen’s jaw dropped to the floor when he told her. 

The night ended with Henry walking Anwen home to her nearby townhouse, and they shared their first kiss on the doorstep, swapping numbers with the promise to meet up again soon for a date.

          Now back in the present, nearly six years later, Anwen had moved into Henry’s penthouse, with Ciri who Kal adored. Both dogs were curled up at the end of the bed now, fast asleep.

In Henry’s arms, Anwen cuddled in close. “Yes, so if it wasn’t for me tripping and drenching you that night we wouldn’t be here now, so stop taking the piss!”  

“Okay, okay!” Henry laughed. “I do worry though, you know. You’re like… like porcelain. So easily broken. Be more careful, I’d hate for something to happen, for me to lose you. I love you so much, my Annie.”

“Don’t be so soft! I’m not going anywhere, not for a long time. And I’ll love you until the day I’m gone, and if I can love after, then I will then too. So shush,” Anwen replied, placing a kiss on his lips.

“Anyway, I’m not that breakable, I don’t think. Wanna test this theory?” 

Swinging her legs around Henry’s waist, Anwen straddled him and seductively removed her top. She was braless underneath. Henry whistled low, and licked his lips.

“Yes ma’am.”

          Henry and Anwen’s life continued in perfect bliss. Both had never been as happy as they were with each other. Anwen was now an established celebrity chef, having opened many more restaurants worldwide, written a few cookbooks and even been on television a couple of times. Henry’s career as an actor was skyrocketing, his role at Geralt in The Witcher making him a household name. This meant that he had to travel all around the globe for work, however this didn’t impact his and Anwen’s relationship in the slightest, as she regularly went with him, using the time to research new recipes for her business. When they had spare time, they enjoyed exotic holidays, and it was on the white powder sand of the Maldives that Henry proposed. Anwen had burst into tears and accepted immediately, and they’d spent the rest of that holiday on their private island mostly naked, enjoying each other as an engaged couple.           Their home life was refreshingly normal however. Behind closed doors, they were just Henry and Anwen, not the famous actor and the celebrity chef. They both took in turns to cook dinner, did the housework together and spent the evenings cwtched up on the sofa watching old movies. Laughter was a staple in their home, in fact they only ever rowed when England played Wales at rugby during the Six Nations. Life was indeed bliss, and it seemed nothing could burst this content bubble they were living in.

            One average day in late autumn, Anwen was sat at the kitchen table, with her laptop open in front of her and Ciri snoozing quietly at her feet. Dressed in a pair of comfy sweats and a loose off-the-shoulder jumper, her hair piled artfully messy on top of her head and holding a large cup of coffee in her hands, she was looking at wedding venues online, finally making a start on planning their special day. A huge binder was also open on the table with multiple sheets on paper sticking out of it. She’d made plenty of notes and had lots of ideas; it was now time to put them into action. Henry walked into the kitchen, looking very stylish in back jeans and a tight black t-shirt. He was holding Kal’s lead and the akita was tip-tapping on the tiles behind him, clearly very excited about going for a walk. Ciri didn’t even raise her head, happy enough to stay in with her mum and continue her nap. 

“I’m going to take Kal with me to the meeting with my manager,” he said to Anwen. “Then do you fancy meeting me after with Ciri and we’ll take them for a walk in the park?” 

“Yes, my love, sounds lush. How long will you be do you think?”

“Not sure, I’ll call you when I’m done.”

“Sounds like a plan!”

“What are you up to today?” Henry asked, walking over to Anwen and kissing her on the top of her head. “Wedding stuff?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna send off some emails now this morning and then go to this bakery and try out some wedding cake samples,” Anwen smiled.

“Well, I’m jealous! Have a great day honey, I’ll call you later. Love you!”

“Love you, bye!” she called as he walked out the front door.

          Henry’s meeting was going well. His manager had quite a few prospective roles lined up for him, and Henry was interested in the majority of them. His mind wandered to Anwen every so often; he still missed her when they were apart. As the meeting was coming to a close and Kal started getting excited again at going for another walk, Henry’s phone rang. He looked at the caller ID- withheld number. 

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr Henry Cavill? I’m a nurse here at London hospital. We have you down here as Miss Anwen Evans’s emergency contact.”

Henry paled. “Is she okay?”

“I’m afraid Miss Evans has been involved in a serious accident. We have her here at the emergency department. Can you get here straight away?”

          Henry had never moved so quickly in his entire life. After giving his manager a hurried explanation and asking him whether he’d look after Kal, he’d gotten in his car and sped through the streets of London, not caring that he was breaking the speed limit. He parked illegally, jumping out of the vehicle and sprinting into the hospital. His mind was in overdrive, all sorts of scenarios going through his head. He felt sick with fear and exertion. Flying into the emergency room, he looked around wildly, finding a nurse sat at the front desk.

“Anwen Evans? I’m here for Anwen Evans, I’m Henry Cavill,” he cried desperately. The nurse didn’t hesitate.

“Come with me.”

She explained to Henry what had happened on the way. “Anwen was crossing the road at a zebra crossing when she tripped halfway, according to witnesses. There was a speeding car, who didn’t see her. He… he ran right over her. He didn’t stop. There are police looking for the car and driver as we speak.”

The flash of anger that Henry felt was so severe that his steps faltered for a second. But then he pushed it away, to be dealt with later. All that mattered now was Anwen. 

“Mr Cavill, Anwen is in a bad way. She has a serious brain injury, and multiple body fractures. The trauma team managed to get her stable, but it’s touch-and-go. The next twenty-four hours are critical,” the nurse said gently. “Prepare yourself before you go in.”

She opened the door to the dimly lit room. The sound of machines beeping dominated the otherwise peaceful atmosphere. Henry moved closer to the bed, his mouth dry, hands shaking. His Annie was lying in the bed, connected to the machines, wires snaking out from every part of her it seemed. Her beautiful black hair was covered by thick white bandages wrapped around her head, and every part of her skin was purple and blue bruises. Her striking green eyes, usually so full of love and sparkle, were swollen shut. Henry had never seen anything so heartbreaking; tears coursed unbidden down his cheeks.

“Can I sit by her? Hold her hand?” he choked to the nurse. 

“Of course, pet.”

He pulled up a chair to her bedside and ever so gently took Anwen’s hand in his. It was reassuringly warm. He could do nothing for a moment but stroke it slowly. Worry filled every part of his being. 

“I’m here Annie. It’s your Henry. Come back to me, you can get through this,” he whispered, and then as sobs wracked through him, he added, “you said you’d love me until you’re gone and I’ll be damned if you’re going anywhere yet.” 

For the next few hours, Henry didn’t leave Anwen’s side; he didn’t let go of her hand. He held onto hope that she would get better. After all, porcelain could break yes, but it could also be fixed. And he would do anything to fix her. 

          As it approached eighteen hours since Anwen’s accident, a nurse came into the room and caught Henry fighting not to fall asleep. She softly tapped him on the shoulder.

“Mr Cavill, go and get some rest. You’re more than welcome to use the family room just next door. Freshen up, get an hour or so sleep. If anything changes, I promise I’ll come and notify you immediately.”

Henry considered this, torn between not wanting to leave Anwen’s side and the need to at least wash his face. 

“I’ll be half an hour, tops. Annie, I’ll be right back.” He put her hand down, and exited the room, rubbing his tired eyes as he went. 

He hadn’t been gone five minutes when a terrifying beeping screeched out from Anwen’s room. He ran out of the bathroom still with wet hands, his heart in his mouth. He halted in the doorway, petrified at the scene unfolding in front of him. 

A team of medics were working hard on her, the unrelenting beeping just adding to the frenzy of the situation. Anwen’s heart had stopped; someone fired up a defibrillator. The shock that went through her echoed in Henry. He just didn’t know what to do. He was vaguely aware of someone trying to lead him away but he just couldn’t move, couldn’t tear his eyes away, panic rising, threatening to overspill. His Annie, his Annie was there dying on that bed, and he couldn’t do anything but watch. And then suddenly, the most sinister sound yet. A flatline. Followed by a voice.

“We’ve lost her. Time of death, eight fifteen AM…”

Then silence.

The sound that tore its way up and out through Henry’s throat was that of a wounded animal. He screamed, the feeling pure agony.

“No! NO! There must be something you can do! My Annie! Annie…”

The doctor looked at him with sadness in his eyes. “I am so sorry, Henry. So sorry. Please, everyone, give him some space.”

The rest of his team followed him out; the nurse that had told Henry to go get some rest was crying silently. 

Henry stood rooted to the spot, in a state of absolute denial. Only a day before they’d been in their kitchen together, making plans to walk their beloved dogs, she was planning their wedding. Their wedding. Agony ripped through his chest, sobs wracked his body, his breathing erratic, his heart shattered, never to be healed again. Broken, like porcelain. 

          Henry didn’t know how he got through the funeral. He’d been to the funeral home, and dressed her in her favourite dress and shoes, and spent a long time brushing out her hair; he’d done that when she was alive, but the familiar act did nothing to ease his pain. When he got to the church, he walked down the aisle with her coffin on his shoulder, his heart heavy because he should have been watching her walk down the aisle in a white flowing dress towards him, he should be becoming her husband, not burying her. When it came to reading her eulogy, he was overcome with emotion, for the first time in his life not able to talk in public. His mother helped him down from the podium; his father continued the speech. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

At the wake, he got blind drunk. No one saw him for a week afterwards.

          The news of Anwen’s death was plastered all over the newspapers and online. Headlines such as “HENRY CAVILL FIANCE KILLED IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT” and “CELEBRITY CHEF ANWEN EVANS DEAD AT 27” accompanied photos of the both of them. The hole in Henry’s chest got bigger each time he saw it. He threw himself into his work; being someone else for at least 12 hours a day was easier than dealing with real life. Because the grief was all consuming, terrifying, never-ending. When he got home to his cold and empty penthouse, he couldn’t escape it; Kal and Ciri looked at him sadly every night, the question in their eyes: “where is our mummy?” Henry had no answers for them. He spent each evening sat in the dark, in silence. There was no laughter, no enjoyment in life since she’d gone. 

          A few weeks later, Simon came to visit. He’d been dropping in regularly, terribly worried about his friend. Henry looked, quite frankly, awful. His hair was long and the curls unkempt, he’d let his beard grow out and he had deep purple bags under his eyes. He’d lost a lot of weight too, although he hadn’t stopped working out. Simon sat down next to Henry on his sofa, nervously voicing the question he’d come round to ask.

“Henry, it’s the awards ceremony tonight. Will you be going?”

Henry looked at him like he’d gone mad. 

“Look,” Simon continued. “You’ve been nominated for Best Actor. It’s highly likely you’re going to win. Remember how she… how Anwen was really looking forward to going.” This was true. The red dress she’d been planning to wear was still hung up on the back of the bedroom door. “If you don’t want to go for yourself, why don’t you go for her?”

Henry thought it over. He hadn’t been out, apart from work and the gym, since before the accident. The thought of going to such a high-profile event caused panic. Yet… an image of Anwen, smiling before him in that red dress suddenly entered his mind. She had been so excited; she’d even helped him write his acceptance speech in case he did in fact win Best Actor. Go for her, Simon had said…

          And that’s how, just hours later, Henry found himself back on the red carpet, surrounded by flashing lights and crazed shouting as paparazzi tried to get his attention. He posed for a few photos before hurrying inside and taking his seat. He ate the extravagant three-course meal without really tasting it, drank the wine without really feeling it. Simon sat by his side, a welcome support; a truly great friend. Then, finally, it was time for the awards to be given. 

Henry clapped and cheered as each person won their nominated categories; showing his support for his fellow actors and actresses. Seeing them so happy actually lifted his spirits for the first time since… before. Then it was time for the winner of the Best Actor award.

“And the winner is… HENRY CAVILL!”

Henry sat in shock as the cameras and spotlights panned to him. Simon was on his feet, screaming “I knew he’d do it!” and then he was helping Henry up. “Go on mate, to the stage. You won, you bloody won!” 

In a daze, he walked towards the stage, then across it, accepting his award from the host. The applause was tumultuous; it took a few moments for it to die down, and then everyone in the audience was waiting expectantly for his speech. Henry drew a blank; he had no idea what to say.

“You can do it, handsome!” a heartbreakingly familiar voice whispered in his ear. He looked to the side and his breath hitched in his throat. Anwen was stood there, a wide grin all over her face, looking devastatingly beautiful in the red dress she’d planned to wear tonight. 

“I’m right here with you. I love you.”

Tears welled and spilled from Henry’s eyes as he turned back to face the audience. 

“This award,” he started. “is for my Anwen. My Annie. I couldn’t have been the actor who deserved it without her love and encouragement. She was my everything. She still is. I owe this, my entire career, my entire life to you, my angel. I miss you more than words can describe, and I love you even more.

As he left the stage to even louder applause and cheers and flashing lights, he looked up, seeing the love of his life again, smiling, tears sparkling on her cheeks, blowing him a kiss as she faded away.

“Goodbye my Annie,” he whispered. “Goodbye.”

[idlecreature]

a mountain is a lovely, cold thing to surround one

Barnabas Bennett and Mordechai Lukas have an... unorthodox relationship. 

Barnabas has debts, and Mordechai makes sure he pays them. 

Vampire!Mordechai for Jonah Magnus Week! Part 1/Part 2/Part 3 

Rating: Mature 

Relationships: Mordechai Lukas/Barnabas Bennett, Jonah Magnus/Barnabas Bennett 

Content warnings: Dubcon, Unhealthy relationships, heavy on the internalized homophobia, the Lonely, manipulation (hence the dubcon warning), Barnabas does NOT die in this fic, happy ending for Barnabas because he deserves it rrrr  

Fragments from a letter written circa Christmas 1814 

—and I am looking forward to fainting at the sight of his sweet little face, Jonah! The splendid mane around his neck! Your little tiger, king of his jungle, king Ceasar, his croaky battle-roar as he runs down the hallway for his cream—

*

Barnabas has a sixth sense for earthquakes. In the hours leading up to one, he feels odd jolts in his bones, like someone is reaching through his skin and rattling him. He feels them where he broke his zygomatic process when his mother dropped him as a toddler, just to the side of his left eye. If he had a soul, he thinks that’s where it would live: in the part of him that was first broken. 

When he and Jonah are thirteen and eleven respectively, he feels his skull itching and watches the trembling of their school’s pet rabbit and the anxious pattern of birds wheeling, and on their tea break, he leads Jonah outside and takes the other boy’s hand and presses it to a patch of bare dirt beside the rugby field. 

“Do you feel that?” Barnabas asks. 

Jonah’s eyes narrow in concentration. His hand scrapes nonsense patterns in the dirt. “Describe what I’m supposed to be feeling?” 

Barnabas shakes his head. How does a thirteen-year-old describe a sense of inescapable doom? It feels like standing outside his mother’s room unbreathing and counting down from twenty before knocking. It feels like being sucked under a wave and not fighting as hard as he knows he should to resurface. It feels like waking up on a grey morning crying. 

The quake, when it hits that evening, lasts for six minutes. An entire epoch for a child. And Barnabas understands it’s no use knowing about an oncoming earthquake if you are powerless to stop it coming on. 

At least he has Jonah, whose dirty hand wraps tightly around his own. 

Despite what Jonah believes, there are some things that just can’t be explained in words. 

*

His skull’s been prickling in recent months. 

It’s gonna be a bad one. 

* 

—It’s freezing cold, and, oh, you know I feel the cold most cruelly. I cannot make myself warm with double-socking, or blankets over my knees, or hot bread and soup... nothing warms me, only the morning sun as she shakes her fiery head. I cannot wait for summer-time—

*

Isabel Blackwood is a saint. 

“Another slice of Three-kings-cake, B....Barny?” Isabel asks, her knife poised in the air. There are two slices left, and James has already found the bean. Her four children stand at her elbows, eyeing the cake with hungry, dark eyes, but they, too, cede to Barnabas. Even the little king bows. 

“Mr. Bennett, if you please,” Barnabas replies, aiming for a terse-but-gentle tone. “And I couldn’t eat another bite!” He pats his stomach in emphasis. 

“Come on, Mr. Bennett, it’s Christmas!” 

“Leave off, Mr. Blackwood,” Isabel says to her husband. She smiles at Barnabas as she cuts the two slices into four and divides them amongst her children. 

“Don’t wolf it down or you’ll make yourselves sick,” Isabel warns the two girls, Frances and Annie. 

The Blackwoods are decent folk, letting him come over for cake on Christmas. They were the first to sign up for Barnabas’ family charity earlier in the year; he has since taken on half a dozen more, but his closest working relationship is still the Blackwoods. The charity pulled the eldest, James, out of the workhouse and into an apprenticeship, made co-payments on lodgings that are just a step above their old squalid tenement, provided them with new ill-fitting clothes. It seems pitifully little to Barnabas, but the Blackwoods seem to worship the ground he walks on. 

You can’t be too friendly with people like that. It’s unfair to you both. It’s awkward enough sitting in their smoky central room, the air smelling like damp and soap and sweat and charcoal, in a tailored suit that may as well have been spun from gold, hands soft from white-collar work, clear-eyed and ruddy-cheeked. Look, his appearance mocks, how the world could be if it were not so cruel. 

Before Barnabas leaves the Blackwoods, the littlest one, Henry, gives him a tight hug. Henry tries to wrap his entire body around Barnabas’ middle, constricting him like a snake, and when he doesn’t seem to want to let go Isabel has to pry him off. 

“Don’t be so clingy,” she chides her son. She looks at Barnabas nervously. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bennett. He’s somehow got it in his silly noggin that you’re his Uncle.” 

Barnabas looks at her in mute horror. “I - I - I should go,” he says, and makes a hasty exit. 

*

Barnabas runs a finger down the perfectly neat columns of his ledger again, double-checking every minutia of his expenses. He’s made a mistake, he must have missed something. He’s fifty pounds short of where he should be. 

His hands curl into fists. The absence of fifty pounds shouldn’t be a big issue, not for him and his big house and servants and nice things. But the charity is obviously chewing through more of this month’s allowance than he’s anticipated, and he needs to make some adjustments if he wants to be able to keep all the nice things and pay the servants and keep the debt collector from his door. 

This is why he shouldn’t let people become attached to him. Because he ends up disappointing or hurting them. People could starve and it would be his fault. 

A thick splat of water lands on his ledger, making the perfect lines run, and that’s just great, isn’t it? What are tears ever good for, when are they ever useful? He is just a very small cog in a very big machine, and now he’s getting ground up in it like the rest of them. 

But what else can he do? He must participate in the world if he wants it to change for the better, even if it’s a marginal improvement. He could live in the margins. 

He’ll find the money somewhere. 

*

—did you get my copy of Queen Mab? The Vice Society has declared it OBSCENE MATERIAL, and I mustn't be seen with a copy of it in my house, but you do not rely so much upon a good reputation. I hope you keep it safe. I hope you read it and I hope you side with P.B.S. and I. A good world starts with a good person and a few choices that are made with the heart—

*

Barnabas’s game of solitaire lies forgotten as he stares at Jonah.

They are more different now than ever. Barnabas keeps the company of bankers and lawyers and politicians, and Jonah runs with crackpots and devils and the insane. Jonah has fourteen powers; Barnabas has a list of names in his address book. People he barely knows, who remain in his orbit because of his good breeding, his impeccable reputation, and they still only half-listen to his pleading and his petitioning and his politicking. The people with the power to actually change the world; people he wants at arm’s length.  

But there’s just something about Jonah that makes Barnabas want to touch. He flares to gold with an audience; but, even now, curled up on his couch idly scratching between Julius Ceasar’s whiskers, he is a dim and majestic copper. There’s something undeniably old testament about Jonah; the fire and fury of creation, the self-annihilating stare of Lot’s wife. 

Jonah’s close to buried under the Millbank proofs spread over his lap, sucking gently on the tip of his pen, occasionally darting down to make some arcane adjustment on the design—just a penstroke or puzzling scribble. Mostly he just stares at the paper, eyes wide enough to look like holes in his face. When he gets like this, Barnabas can balance teacups on Jonah’s head without him noticing. The record is three. 

“Still keeping the elevator?” Barnabas asks. It’s just one of the many strange embellishments that Jonah’s insisted upon, putting it far outside the budget of any public works project. The price of Jonah’s fancies must run into the tens of thousands of pounds. 

“In my dreams, there’s a glass elevator to the top of my tower, from which I look down upon the imprisoned and the powerless,” Jonah says. 

“Taking cues from your dreams?” Barnabas replies. “You know only the desperately mad do that?” 

“Or desperately inspired—savants and prophets and visionaries.” 

“And prison wardens, apparently,” Barnabas mutters. He bites his teeth together, unwilling to work through this old argument. “Who’s paying for your dream towers, again? Think they might lend me fifty pounds for a project that actually is for the public good?” 

Jonah finally unpeels his eyes from his proofs, and Barnabas’s throat runs dry. Jonah stares until he’s got Barnabas squirming in his seat, and then he says, brightly, “Oh, I’m sure he would. I’m sure I could tell you. But I don’t think I will.” 

“Jonah,” Barnabas says irritably. “That’s very unfair.” 

“Oh, pish posh, life’s unfair, Barny, and I can’t believe that you in your infinite wisdom and your even more infinite disposition to share it can pretend that it isn’t. That the evil in man has made life unfair, that it’s just not the natural order to put some creatures above others.” 

Barnabas counters him an instant later. “Obviously, you stupid little man, not everyone was created equal, but it’s the good in man to want to put things to rights, to create a system where unequal creatures can be equal. Are you trying to make me angry with you by playing the devil’s advocate?” 

“Just testing you,” Jonah says in his alloyed voice, silver-and-honey-gold. 

“Well? Who’s this rich man then?” 

Jonah sticks his tongue out at him. 

“Alright, it’s getting late,” Barnabas says. He tidies his long-forgotten card game and makes ready to leave. 

“Wait,” Jonah says. 

“It really is getting on, Jonah, I promise you can tease me about secret benefactors some other day.” Barnabas stands up and stretches on his stiff legs. 

“No.” Jonah shuts his eyes briefly. “It’s very late. You should stay.” 

Barnabas shakes his head and makes his way out of the fire-warm lounge and into the cold front room. Jonah springs up, sending the proofs flying and Julius Ceasar yowling in annoyance and surprise, and Jonah follows close on his heels. 

“It’s raining,” Jonah says more softly. 

“It is Edinburgh,” Barnabas replies, but cold apprehension curdles in his belly. “I - I need to leave. I - I already visit you too often, Jonah, and you know what people say about you, and they might think that I’m.... I’m some kind of...” 

Jonah steps closer. “Aren’t you, though? ‘Some kind of’?” He reaches for Barnabas’s hand where it is clumsily buttoning his coat. “I know you, Barnabas. Your morality has only ever been a thin cover for your shame.” 

The blood drains from Barnabas’ face. “That’s very cruel,” he whispers. 

“It’s true,” Jonah says. He cants his head. “Haven’t you thought about why your morals don’t ever make you happy? It’s because you wield them like a sword, to keep yourself away from the world. A world that won’t ever accept you for who you are. A world that wants you to keep waving that heavy, sharp thing until you give up and throw yourself upon it. That’s your pain, Barnabas, that’s your fear. Whenever I look at you I can see it as easily as I see your face.” 

Jonah steps closer again. His chin touches Barnabas’s chest, and Barnabas can see the pulse fluttering in his friend’s throat. “It doesn’t have to be that way,” Jonah says. 

“It does,” Barnabas says, stepping out of his reach. “Because - because I’m still afraid, and I still love the world, even - even if to live in it I must throw myself upon my sword and die and haunt my own life, all at the same time.”

Jonah remains silent. If he is stung by the rejection, his expression doesn’t show it. He’s got that crinkle between his brow he gets when he has to solve two maths problems simultaneously.   

“Mordechai Lukas,” Jonah says, eventually. “That’s my moneyed friend. Tread carefully with him.” 

Jonah wishes him no goodbye when he shuts the door. That’s fine with Barnabas. He’s not the only one nursing fresh wounds. 

* 

—I confess since I’ve been away this time my need or my wish for people has absolutely fled. I have learned to love solitude, and I forget what it means to be lonely.— 

* 

Mordechai looms as large as a mountain and is beautiful in the way a portrait is beautiful—two steps removed from humanity. 

He tilts Barnabas’s head to the side, impervious to the muscles in Barnabas’s neck straining against him. 

“Hm,” Mordechai says. 

“I take it you’re not convinced by the moral position, then,” Barnabas spits out. His cheeks are burning, but Mordechai’s other hand is wrapped around Barnabas’s hip, stopping him from stepping away. 

Mordechai laughs; a strange thing, guttering as it starts, in contrast with his unmoving, lifeless, beautiful face. His thumb strokes Barnabas’s cheek despite Barnabas trying to shake it off. “No. But there are certainly other positions to consider.” 

“We’re in public,” Barnabas hisses. He looks pointedly at two women walking down the other side of the street. 

“Are we?” Mordechai murmurs. He’s still circling his thumb on Barnabas’s cheek, but his fingers press down on Barnabas’s carotid artery, taking its measure, making Barnabas’s vision swim with silver fish. 

“What - what vile magic -” 

“Just a glamour.” 

Barnabas processes this new information rapidly. “They can’t see us?” 

“Would you like them to?” 

Barnabas tries to shake his head, but it is locked in place, pulled as taut as a bowstring. The pressure is starting to hurt, and he rests against Mordechai’s hand for a moment to ease it. 

“Good,” Mordechai says, and releases him. Barnabas takes several staggering steps backward, massaging his sore neck. “Spirited, aren’t you?” 

“I can - I can work up a repayment plan, we can sign it at the -” 

“No,” Mordechai replies, his voice heavy with finality. “I decide how I am repaid.” 

Desperation is a harsh master, and Barnabas nods. He’d prefer to keep it off the books, anyway. An agreement between Gentlemen. 

“You will find my terms very agreeable,” Mordechai says. 

Barnabas swallows and feels the heat of his blush creep under his hair. There’s something in the way Mordechai looks at him that promises danger, but Barnabas only feels the anticipation of a fight, so strong he can barely keep it down. He takes his time to make sure he doesn’t sound too eager when he replies. 

* 

In the dark of his bedroom when Barnabas finally wraps a hand around himself, he isn’t thinking about Jonah, his many dog-eared fantasies, tired and sad Frankensteinian conjurations of the few ginger kisses they’ve shared, memories of Jonah flushed, excited, exerted stitched together and his own imagination filling in the rest—they’ve been friends for so long it’s completely understandable if Barnabas’ thoughts occasionally (privately, every night) run to intimacy. He’s trying very hard not to think about Jonah. 

He’s thinking about that strange, death-pale, flat-edged face, the terrible pressure on Barnabas’s jaw, the feeling of compression on his artery, the voice both mocking and stern in turns. Its appearance in Barnabas’s thoughts elicits a new and fierce shame. 

Barnabas rubs his chin, trying to chase the feeling of Mordechai’s hand. 

It’s almost comical, how quickly Barnabas’s shame runs to pleasure. 

* 

His fifty pounds arrives with an invitation. 

* 

The first time Barnabas visits Moorland house, he expects Mordechai to be waiting for him. But Mordechai is not there, and Barnabas is expected to wait. 

Moorland is certainly a large and imposing estate, perhaps once opulent, but it has been left to ruin. The building’s beams sag with damp; its tapestries are delicately laced with powder-white fungus; there is an atrocious stuffed albatross over the mantlepiece with half of its feathers snowed around the room. The grounds are pale and bare; an empty wind roils through. 

Barnabas is fairly certain that Moorland has three servants, but they whip around or disappear through doors when he tries to approach them. Barnabas’s own house is much smaller, but he has just as many in his staff; he suspects that Mordechai is not a rich man at all, just someone with a once-impressive but dead family name and an estate too large to be managed on a pittance. He wonders why Mordechai pretends otherwise. 

These thoughts slip through his mind like freshwater fish down a stream, but Barnabas wanders through the house contentedly enough. After a week he barely even notices the servants’ presence, save for his changing sheets and pressed clothes and the serviceable meals prepared set and left for him in at the kitchen table, in front of the unlit hearth. He eats with blackened silverware and tastes the neglect. 

After two weeks, Barnabas sails through the house in fraying silk undergarments and dusty, pink-tinged mink he’s pulled out of a room he can’t remember, his days blurring together in their monotony. He stops to wipe a sleeve at one of the many ancient, spotted mirrors and squints through the smear of dust at his reflection, trying to reconcile the person standing in front of him with the person he thought he was. Wasn’t he supposed to have a purpose here? Wasn’t he needed in London? There is poverty, suffering; but it is far, far away, and he is in a place it would never touch him. 

There are as many mirrors as there are portraits of Mordechai’s family, all exactly alike, his haunting beauty and domineering presence. Barnabas drags a finger down the paint of one of them, leaving behind a thin white line. A tally mark to as many days he thinks he’s spent in this place. 

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, clipping pearlescent roses from the garden for a floral arrangement when he thinks about all those mirrors, and how a ghost could wander this house trapped forever. If he covers up the mirrors, then he could leave. 

*

Mordechai returns when Barnabas no longer keeps track of days and nights; when the mirrors don’t make him think of anything in particular, although he wonders why half of them are shrouded or turned to the wall. 

Barnabas drifts down to the coatroom and threads his arms through Mordechai’s. 

“Welcome home,” he says dreamily. 

“Hello,” Mordechai says. Barnabas makes a small, disappointed sound when Mordechai disengages himself to unwind his scarf. He scratches his beard. “You’re in a biddable mood.” 

“‘Course I am. I’m lovely,” Barnabas replies. He presses himself to Mordechai, enjoying the whole, solid block of him. Mordechai’s hands are worryingly chilly, and Barnabas gathers them and blows on them gently. Once he finishes the task he settles against Mordechai again, pleased with himself. 

Mordechai forgoes a response but for tipping Barnabas’s head back and sucking an open-mouthed kiss against his neck, working the skin with his tongue and the slick coldness of his teeth, and, oh, this is the touch that Barnabas has craved these past days. He’s felt so forlorn without it, only he never realized. 

He’s gasping and moaning by the time Mordechai splits his skin open and drinks his blood. It’s only then, with his blood being pulled out of him in long, deep strokes, that Barnabas remembers with ice-cold clarity why he’s here; to repay a debt; and that he should be feeling rather a lot of either shame, or anger, pain, or worry, but instead he’s trying to rut his puffed-up prick against the vampire’s body. 

Mordechai licks the wound closed and kisses Barnabas, sharing with him the taste of his own blood. 

“Happy new year,” Mordechai says.